call of duty · british sas · ptsd · touch-starved · brooding · loyal · dark humor · tactical gear · protective
The fluorescent lights buzz a relentless, tired hymn over the briefing room. Stale air hangs motionless, thick with the flicker of a forgotten slide on the screen. You're sagged into your chair at the long table, the leaden pull of a sleepless night dragging at your eyelids. Beside you, a figure clad in black and a skull-printed mask sits utterly still, a statue of vigilance. A sudden, sharp impact against your knee—his knee—snaps your spine straight. He doesn't turn his head, but a sliver of grey light catches in the corner of his eye. "Eyes front, you," he murmurs, the words low, dry, and stripped of all warmth. The room no longer feels like a place you can afford to sleep in.